Once upon a time, there was a young writer. It was the weekend, and she had decided that, of course, she was going to get some writing done. After all, she was a writer--writing was what she did! And, of course, a weekend is a very apt time to write.
So, with a cup of medicinal coffee near at hand, she sat down and put her fingers to the keyboard, preparing to let inspiration rush through her veins, down into her fingers and into the computer, where undoubtedly it would take the form of some wholly miraculously ingenious piece of literature that was destined to become a great classic. Of course it would happen--it had to!
And there she sat for some time--fingers still resting attentively on the keyboard, ready to type at any moment. At last she typed:
THE UNIQUENESS OF DR. FOOZBALL
No, no! she said to herself, that is absurd. And so she dutifully backspaced it, and continued to sit there, staring at the blank document before her.
Surely it can't last THIS long! she thought. After all, inspiration has to come some time...right?
Then, at last! The proverbial lightbulb hovering but a few inches from her head lit up with the spark of inspiration and imagination. She had it!--ah, it seemed that the muses had smiled upon her; God Himself had sent an idea worthy of the great poets of ages past. At last!
Entirely excited, she frenetically typed out the title and began to write feverishly.
Fifteen seconds later, there came a tremendous crash from behind her. She whirled around, "What on earth was that?"
"Nothing!" piped up a high, squeaky voice. Worried, the writer stood up and went over, "Linny, what have you been doing?"
She followed the owner of the squeaky voice downstairs, where she was greeted by a sea of misplaced toys--little raggedy Ann and Andy were in the process of riding a tiger that had lost its leg at some point; a fluffy white cat was having tea with G.I Joe and a number of Duplo blocks. An entire army of Legos had united against the evil forces of Polly Pocket, and Marine Barbie was arranging a counterattack with paratroopers who were, evidently, going to leap off of the poor writer's bed with the intention of taking down the Evil Polly. A number of books were now serving as a great evil castle, undoubtedly a lair for the pernicious Polly.
"What have you done?" cried the writer in distress. Half a moment later, she was being guided around the room as she was informed, quite ceremonially, that as it was there were a number of swans, bears and tigers currently positioned underneath one of the beds. They were stones now, but soon Aslan would come and free them--Aslan who, for the time being, was neatly positioned on the top of the ceiling-fan. The writer, who was distressed at this new battleground which had now occupied her room for close to half an hour, wiped her brow and began to say something to the effect of, come dears, we mustn't mess everything up--
But then her ears were greeted with a tremendous wail, and she was soon met with moral conflicts that her years of catechism had not dared to deal with--whether or not, in fact, it was moral and licit for a little sister, having otherwise been jilted by a brother (who, having agreed to play dolls with her only after a great deal of cajoling, had decided one of the dolls was Marie Antoinette, and had thusly removed her head), to attack him by smearing play-doh all over his newest Lego set, and if the brother, in retaliation, was permitted to pull his sister's braid. There was also the complicated moral dilemma of whether or not a young boy, having illicitly obtained a pair of matches and having lit one of them, was allowed some anger when an unhappy sister stole the matches and proceeded to use them as kabobs for her most recent tea-party (at which, mind you, Barbie and G.I Joe were in attendance, and where Joe intended to propose to Barbie--much to the chagrin of the little boy who happened to own G.I Joe, and who then decided that Joe ought to deploy as soon as possible, where he would die a heroic death and thus be saved from being wed to Barbie).
When, at last, these matters had been settled (after much blood, sweat and tears--and the children were upset as well) over some tea and cookies, the poor writer then slowly marched back up the stairs and into her cozy attic, where she sat down at her computer again, fully ready to resume the writing of her brilliant, inspired literature.
She placed her fingers neatly on the keyboard, and then stopped. A horrifying realization came over her, and she felt her spirits sinking deep into the pit of her stomach.
What on earth was I going to write about?
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